


I want a love that feels safe

by fairmanor



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: (no not in THAT way), David Rose Deserves Nice Things, Enjoying Time Alone, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, One Shot, Wine, just two husbands doin' their own thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29228610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairmanor/pseuds/fairmanor
Summary: David relaxes upstairs while Patrick hosts a party. Or, a little ficlet about safety and belonging.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 55
Kudos: 225





	I want a love that feels safe

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [agoodpersonrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodpersonrose/pseuds/agoodpersonrose) and her desire for one of those fluffy lil blankets with arm holes. There are none in this fic, but the cosy vibes of the convo brought it on anyway.

David never thought he’d feel so safe in a house full of people he doesn’t know.

He’s drifted in and out of consciousness from person to place to thing, spent his twenties suspended on a tightrope of everything and nothing. He’s woken up next to people he’s never met, people he knows too well. Rooms full of people, sometimes, all staring down at him for reasons he never found out.

He’s not sure how Patrick convinced him to let him host an afterparty for an economics training course in their house, but between “the Town Hall was booked” and “these people have come all the way to Schitt’s Creek for this, David” he was swayed on the condition that they hid all the perishable decorations and cleared the cupboards of all the universally agreed-upon drunk foods. He doesn’t want any weird business nerd strangers stealing his nachos.

He has some with him now, balanced on his blanket-covered thighs and loaded with all the classic toppings as he watches TV in bed. Getting a detachable one for the end of their bed was definitely leaning towards the unnecessary end of their luxury home improvement list, but an uptick in sales last year had seen it installed as a pleasant gift in the cold winter months.

David can hear his husband’s loud, schmoozing laugh downstairs, audible over the muffled music and the rest of the chatter. He smiles to himself, realising he knows exactly what Patrick will look like right now; tie undone, beer bottle in hand, leaning against the counter. He twists his wedding ring round on his finger when he’s really comfortable, so he’s probably doing that too.

In his element. Doing his own thing. Just like David is, with wine and nachos and a rerun of some old music documentary. He’s not really paying much attention, but there’s a lot of background Joni Mitchell and Aretha Franklin overlaying the sunglasses-clad retirees talking about someone or other’s scandals and spiral into humiliation. It is, for lack of a better phrase, a vibe.

What he’s not expecting is the door being suddenly flung open.

“Oh! Sorry,” the woman says, unsticking a strand of hair from her lipstick. “I thought this was the bathroom.”

“It’s down the hall,” David says, trying not to purse his lips or sound too prickly.

“Mm, thanks. Your husband said there was – upstairs, bathroom. Yeah. I need that now. Sorry, I’m a lil’ drunk. You look super cosy, by the way.”

Then she’s gone, singing along very badly to the music downstairs. David can’t help but laugh quietly and be thankful that she didn’t notice the open door of their ensuite. He would have made Patrick clean the house for a week as penalty if anyone had vomited within ten feet of their cast iron claw-footed bathtub.

But strangely, he feels glad that this random stranger, drunk or no, thought he looked _super cosy._ It’s never a descriptor that’s been used when he’s been in this position before, in a house full of people he doesn’t know. It’s never something he’s felt when he’s been in this position before, either. To be known vaguely as the husband upstairs, seen and unseen, warm under this soft blanket with his favourite comfort food, is so indescribably wonderful that David has to put the nachos and wine aside and just smile into the hem of his blanket for a while.

Then comes a beautifully, obnoxiously loud sentence from downstairs that makes his heart swell:

“I have t’ go see my husband! He’s cool n’ pretty. You’d like him.”

As expected, David’s excitable golden retriever of a husband is bounding up the stairs ten seconds later, spectacularly drunk and tousle haired and gorgeous.

Patrick’s smiling wide as he hops across the room in two steps, launching himself onto David and planting a wet, beer-y kiss on his cheek.

“David! I _missed_ you. There are people downstairs but none of them are you.”

David presses a slightly chaster kiss to his husband’s forehead before gently prying himself out of the grip. “Well, you still seem to be having a good time,” he says, stroking Patrick’s hair in a way that coaxes a goofy, indulgent smile out of him. “I can hear your little voice from all the way up here.”

“Good.” Patrick reaches for David’s nachos and takes one before standing up again. “Mark from the, um, artisan thingy thing in Elmdale brought tequila. I’m gonna get some to go with this nacho.”

Patrick blows David an exaggerated kiss as he stumbles back towards the door. “See you in the – in sometime!”

“Make good choices,” David calls after him.

The party could go on for another half an hour or another three hours, but David’s surprised to find he doesn’t mind either way. Patrick is happy. _He_ is happy. The worst of his worries right now is the (thankfully literal) mess to clean up tomorrow, but even if it’s extensive it doesn’t matter. He’ll still be in the house as he cleans, and whenever he’s here he’s always safe.

Someone on TV says something about walking with wings. David reckons that’s how he feels. Grounded, but free.


End file.
